


say when

by celosiaa



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Coughing, Crying, Fainting, Fluff and Angst, HoH Tim, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Nausea, Whump, arabic-speaking jon, discussion of martin hitting jon, post MAG 173
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25324681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: The instant a bit of light had managed to seep through the Dark, just barely enough to see, they had dropped each other’s hands.Between the Dark and the Vast, there is much to be said--if only Jon were conscious enough to do so.(from a prompt on my tumblr requesting Jon crying)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 73
Kudos: 445





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Come across you lost and broken  
>  You're coming to, but you're slow in waking  
> You start to shake  
> You still haven't spoken, what happened?  
> They’re coming back and you just don't know when  
> You want to cry but there's nothing coming  
> They're gonna push until you give in, say when  
> -The Fray, "Say When"_
> 
> The AMAZING art for this fic is by @captaincravatthecapricious!! You can find more of their fantastic work on tumblr here: https://captaincravatthecapricious.tumblr.com/
> 
> (Martin's thoughts are formatted in italics.)

The instant a bit of light had managed to seep through the Dark, just barely enough to see, they had dropped each other’s hands.

Martin isn’t sure who was first, and finds that he doesn’t care much at the moment. He walks on ahead of Jon now, holding a pace that’s just a bit too fast for the shorter man behind him. Altogether, he’s mainly pleased to have a moment to himself—to take the reins, even—since they were obviously heading toward the light. And of course, Jon would tell him if he was turning the wrong way.

_Probably._

He peeks over his left shoulder anyway, just to make sure that Jon is still there. Naturally, he’s following at some distance behind—probably on purpose, allowing them both some space to breathe. If Martin weren’t so angry, he would likely feel immense gratitude for this action, but he simply does not have the room in his heart to do so at the moment.

_It’s not his fault_ , some small voice behind the seething anger tells him.

_You’re only angry at yourself._

_For pushing him so hard._

_For leaving the children to their terror._

_For doing **nothing**._

**_Monster_ ** _._

Sighing and hanging his head, he claws at the anger over their powerlessness, wanting more than anything to tear it down, to have Jon at his side again. Anything to ease the leaden weight that has settled on his heart. With the growing light comes a rising discomfort over the emptiness; the space where Jon should be like a gaping wound. Even so, Martin does not slow his pace nor turn around—unable to bear looking at Jon’s face now. Not when he knows he’ll be met with his gorgeous eyes, filled with nothing but disappointment and hurt.

_Coward._

The weight on his chest sinks beneath the earth.

They walk a bit further, the stark white light surrounding them forcing Martin to stop briefly to blink it away. As he recovers his vision, he notices with a start that the asphalt of the Dark’s streets trails off just ahead—crumbling into the endless sea of sand now stretching out before them. His stomach drops as he passes his gaze over their surroundings, overwhelmed with such unfathomable _nothingness_ that he feels his anger immediately melt away into anxiety.

_The Vast. Has to be._

Behind him, Martin can hear Jon’s shuffling, much slower than usual, before—

He stumbles.

_Shit._

“Jon?”

Martin whirls around at once, greeted with the sight of Jon bent over, bracing on wobbling knees—and knows he’s about to go down.

“Oh shit shit shit—”

Martin dashes toward him, arms outstretched, as Jon falls—managing to catch him around the waist just in time to lower him gently to the ground.

_Should have known should have known should have known_

He moves with practiced motion now, adrenaline pumping, glancing around for any potential threats as he feels Jon’s pulse—a bit more rapid than he’d like, but still thrumming forcefully against his fingers. Satisfied for the moment, he moves to crouch by Jon’s feet, lifting them up to rest on his right shoulder in an attempt to bring him around.

“Come on, Jon, wake up,” he murmurs, eyes still flitting around periodically for any sign of danger.

This is the fourth time Jon has blacked out after leaving a domain. Though he tends to mince words about these things, Martin had managed to coax him into explaining that, occasionally, the sheer amount of horror that piles into his head from some of these places is simply too much to bear. Too painful to swallow, too painful even to speak. His brain—the human part, that is—simply shorts out when the weight of it sinks in, sometimes sending him to the ground faster than Martin can catch him.

Thankfully, this had not been one of those times.

This was, however, becoming concerning—Jon has woken up within a minute each and every time before. Nearly two minutes have gone by now, and he’s shown no sign of increasing awareness—no twitching, no gasps, nothing—and Martin’s heart beats faster with every passing second. Sliding his legs off his shoulder, unsure of how much that really helps in this situation anyway, Martin takes his hand and kisses his wrist briefly.

“Come on, love, please.”

_Please don’t leave me here alone._

The wind is rising now, kicking up the sand around them and tossing Martin’s hair wild. The sound of it rings through Martin’s head like an empty cavern—or as if he’s on the top of a tall building, toes tipping over the edge, ready to blow over the side and down, down, down at any moment. Shuddering at the thought, he swipes a hand over his face as the sand begins to sting in his eyes.

_We need to find shelter. Fast._

As the wind rushes even faster, Martin finds himself angling his back against it in front of Jon, in some feeble attempt to protect Jon’s face from the harshness. Already he can feel his lips beginning to chap in the never-ending dryness, and licks at them—only to find them instantly more chapped than before.

“Please, wake up, Jon please,” he begs, shaking Jon’s shoulders in earnest now.

At last, at long last, Jon begins to stir—static pulsing from him in a blast loud enough to force Martin to cover his ears.

“Nngh—”

His eyes, now an aberrant green, flit about wildly—seeing without taking anything in. Martin does his best to recover himself quickly, and clasps Jon’s hand in both of his own.

“Hey, you’re alright, you’ve just blacked out again. You’re alright.”

Attempting to lift his head off the ground, Jon finally meets his eyes. The confusion displayed there is enough to send Martin’s heart straight into his throat.

“M’tin?” he slurs, blinking sluggishly at him.

_Oh god._

Martin is thoroughly worried at this point, as Jon has never been this confused when he awakens from these episodes. To be sure, he’s often forced to rest in the wake of their intensity, but _never_ has he seemed so completely unaware of their surroundings, unaware of _him._ In an attempt to conceal his growing panic, Martin clutches his hand just a little bit tighter.

“That’s right, Jon, it’s me. You with me?”

He receives no reply, Jon merely staring at him for a moment with bloodshot eyes before his gaze drifts away, scanning around listlessly.

“Okay. Okay, that’s fine, that’s fine,” Martin says in a shaking voice, mostly to assure himself of this lie.

He forces himself to take a steadying breath, and becomes suddenly aware of the sand stinging the back of his neck.

_Focus._

_What do we do?_

_…_

_Shelter. Now._

Leaning back over Jon, patting his hand against his cheek, Martin steels himself for action.

“Listen, Jon—can you hear me?”

Martin is forced to shout against the howling of the wind. Slowly, ever so slowly, Jon’s eyes drift back to his.

“I-I think we’re in the Vast. We need shelter, _now_. Can you See if there’s anything around?”

For a long moment, Jon merely stares back at him, and Martin is unsure if he is even able to comprehend his words. To his relief, he’s proven wrong when Jon closes his eyes, and Martin immediately senses the power building in him. He reaches his mind across this wasteland, searching every hill and valley for any bit of it that might protect them—then snatches Martin’s wrist, squeezing it tightly.

“Ow, Jon, you’re hurting—”

Jon’s eyes meet his, and suddenly Martin can See too.

_A cliffside, impossibly tall—a barrier from the wind, if I’ve ever seen one._

Jon drops his hand at once, exhausted, as black ink begins to cascade from his eyes and nose—and Martin knows he is utterly spent. With overwhelming relief, Martin wipes at the wetness with his sleeve.

“Thank you, love, thank you, thank you,” he whispers, leaning down to plant a kiss on Jon’s clammy forehead.

Even as he does so, the wind against his back rises, and Martin is suddenly launched back to the task at hand.

_Shelter. Focus._

“Jon, we need to move. I’m going to have to carry you, I’m sorry.”

At this, Jon opens his eyes, his brows knitting together at once in silent apology.

“It’s alright, love. Don’t worry. If I put you on my back, could you hold on?”

After considering this for a moment, Jon nods determinedly and moves to sit up. Martin supports his shoulders at once, pulling him gently upwards—but he loses Martin’s body as a barrier against the wind, sand flying immediately toward his face.

“Ooh, close your eyes, close your eyes—” Martin says as he lifts a hand to shield Jon’s face. 

It takes Jon a few moments, as he’s teetering on the brink of consciousness, before he complies.

“Keep them closed, alright? And keep your head down. Ruddy sand is everywhere.”

Jon nods and coughs weakly, pulling at Martin’s heartstrings.

_There’s got to be something I can do._

Thinking for a moment, Martin slips his bag from his shoulders, rummaging around until he finds his t-shirt. Unfortunately, it’s an old favorite of his—a prize from a writing competition where he’d won third place. He pulls out his knife.

_Sorry, old friend._

Slashing it to pieces, he turns back to Jon and places a hand on his shoulder to alert him to his presence.

“I’m going to tie this fabric around your nose and mouth, and another one over your eyes, okay?”

As he does so, Jon reaches up to meet his hands, fumbling to help him. It’s to no avail, however—left without his arms to brace him, Jon immediately begins to tip over, listing into Martin’s arms.

“It’s alright, Jon—let me, let me,” Martin soothes, pushing Jon’s hands down.

He props him back up to sitting and completes his task before tying his own makeshift bandanna over his face. Turning back to his bag, Martin realizes his problem—if he’s going to carry Jon on his back, he’ll have to strap his bag onto Jon’s shoulders as well.

_Shit._

He freezes in place for a moment, unwilling to do anything to make this worse for Jon, when—

A gust of wind throws the sand behind his glasses, stinging painfully at his eyes, and he remembers that they need to move _now._

_I’m sorry, my love._

Regretfully, Martin loosens the straps of his bag before draping it across Jon’s shoulders, over his own pack. Moving toward his front, Martin clips both bags across Jon’s chest to anchor them.

“Sorry, Jon, I’m so sorry.”

Jon does not reply, head merely lolling forward in response.

At last, Martin turns, crouching with his back toward Jon, and guides his arms to drape around his neck. When he feels Jon’s grip tightening, Martin lifts himself to half-standing so that he can hoist Jon’s legs, holding them tightly in his arms.

It’s heavy, and it’s painful, but it will have to do.

“Alright?” Martin asks, testing Jon’s consciousness.

Jon nods weakly against his shoulder, where his head has tipped against him, and Martin begins their trudge toward the cliff.

\---

_Time._

_What is time, really?_

_Is there anything so silly as time?_

_Even the word sounds funny._

_Time, time, time—_

_Hardly even a word at all, I’d say._

_…how long have I been walking, then?_

Martin is beginning to stumble now, his breath coming in audible, wheezing gasps. He can feel the tender skin of his lips split and bleeding below his bandanna, the sand somehow managing to reach beneath it to tear at his skin and lungs. All he can do now is move forward, braced against the onslaught, and hope to god he’ll see the cliff face rising from the emptiness.

_Any moment now. Surely._

At last, at long last, his prayer is answered—the cliffside juts out before them, and Martin desperately wishes he had the energy to run toward it. His entire body shakes with effort, back aching impossibly, eyes barely open against the wind. Nevertheless, he presses on—feet slipping in the sand in his hurry to get behind the rocky outcropping.

“Almost there, Jon, almost there,” he mutters, voice cracked and thin.

The moment he gets them out of the wind, Martin’s knees slam onto the ground, Jon slipping from his back at once as he leans forward on all fours. Coughing and gagging desperately, his limbs barely willing to support him, he is forced to allow himself a minute or so of recovery. His vision spins and pulses wildly—whether from exhaustion or relief, Martin cannot tell.

_We made it we made it we made it_

When the coughing subsides, he turns slowly back to Jon, who has propped himself up on one shaking elbow to watch him with concern. Martin pulls the cloth from his face at once and offers him a pained smile. 

“It’s okay, I’m alright. Just have to—get the tent going—and we can rest,” he assures between pants.

Martin can read the guilt written across Jon’s face like a billboard. He crawls toward him, unclipping the bags from his chest and sliding them gently from his shoulders—as he does so, Jon’s eyelids begin to flutter as he swoons.

“Hey, hey, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

Cradling him where he lies, Martin wishes he had anything at all with which to comfort him, but knows he needs to get the tent up first.

_You can’t trust comfort._

_Not anymore._

He sets Jon’s head on the ground gently and stands, vision swimming unpleasantly.

_Keep going, Martin._

_Work yet to be done._

_\---_

“Ow, _fuck,_ ow ow—”

Martin curses against the stinging of the water that he’s just poured over his eyes, attempting to wash the sand out yet again. He’s leaning halfway out of their now fully-staked tent, which he dragged Jon’s unconscious form into nearly half an hour ago. All things considered, Martin feels that he’s done at least a decent job at caring for him—he’s been carefully tucked beneath their threadbare blanket, head pillowed on a pile of clothes that Martin has stuffed into a t-shirt, face washed of the ink that had spilled from him earlier. Unconsciousness has lightened gradually into what appears to be sleep, and for that, Martin is grateful.

Sighing, he zips up the tent flap before taking a swig from the canteen, careful not to drink too much. They haven’t needed water during the entirety of their journey thus far—different reality, and all—but who knows what may lie around the next corner? He swishes the water around his mouth before swallowing, savoring the sensation of moisture over the cracking dryness.

_There’s a poem in there somewhere._

_Should write it down._

Turning around to grab his notebook from his bag, he notices with a start that Jon’s eyes are now open, watching him intently. Martin’s face immediately melts into an easy smile as he moves to kneel beside him, brushing away the loose strands of hair hanging over his face.

_God, I love him._

“Hey, there you are. How are you feeling?”

Jon says nothing, continuing to stare deeply into Martin’s eyes before his gaze moves lower, taking in the full extent of his form—dirty, bleeding, and exhausted. Tears well up when he looks back up at him, giving a shuddering gasp as a hand flies up to cover his mouth.

“Jon? What is it?” Martin asks, grasping his hand in concern.

All at once, Jon’s expression falls, tears cascading down his cheeks like a river.

“I’m _so sorry_ ,” he chokes, before breaking off into wrenching sobs.

Martin’s heart is absolutely shattered.

“Oh _no,_ it’s okay, it’s okay, shh—”

He pulls Jon up into a gentle embrace, pressing his violently shaking form against his chest. Jon buries his face into Martin’s shoulder, unable to control this ultimate expression of sorrow, of grief, of bottled-up anxiety, of overwhelming guilt. 

“ _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—”_

“Don’t be, Jon—please don’t.”

Running a hand up into Jon’s locks, Martin continues to whisper soothingly, fighting back against his own tears now threatening to spill over.

“You’re alright, love; I’m alright, we’re safe, and I’m here—”

Jon only sobs harder at this, the dryness of his throat pulling such raw cries from him that Martin can no longer hold back his own tears. Grasping him even tighter, he angles his head downward to press his lips against Jon’s cheek, and again into his hair. Martin has run out of words now, letting his arms be the hope to which Jon clings.

_Please let it be enough._

_I know it’s not, but **please**._

After several minutes, Jon’s sobs fade away, leaving only the trembling of his weakened body behind.

“Here, let’s—here, lie down with me, alright?” Martin says, fearing that Jon might lose consciousness again if he stays upright any longer.

Jon does not reply, still clinging to him, but Martin reaches out for his pack anyway—pulling it behind his head as he guides Jon down to lie against him. Nuzzling into his shoulder at once, Jon lays a hand across his chest as Martin strokes his free hand through Jon’s hair.

“Must have been a bad one, eh?” Martin whispers, unable to imagine the magnitude of the nightmares filling Jon’s head.

“It…it was,” Jon replies shakily. “It is.”

_Oh, darling. I’m sorry._

Silence falls for a moment, and Martin pulls Jon even closer to his chest.

“Do you…want to talk about it?” he asks, wanting desperately to take even a small portion of this burden from him.

Jon’s eyes well with tears once again, and Martin’s heart sinks.

“…I can’t.”

The tears spill over, and Martin knows he has no recourse for comfort but to press his chapped and bleeding lips against Jon’s forehead, willing it all away in silent prayer. Mercifully, these are quicker to subside—the quiet resumes after a few moments, and they begin to speak over each other.

“Jon, I—”

“Martin—”

They pause, staring into the other’s eyes before Martin continues.

“Jon, listen, I owe you an apology.”

Jon’s hand clenches around a fistful of Martin’s shirt.

“You—what?”

“No, I do. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard back in the Dark, made you explain everything to me. It was obviously hurting you, and I just acted like I didn’t care, and I should have trusted your judgement,” Martin says, the words spilling out of him in a rush.

Jon’s voice is low and solemn when he replies.

“No, you shouldn’t.”

A shiver runs up Martin’s spine.

“What?”

“Look, I…I’m not—”

He breaks off, tears pooling yet again at the corners of his eyes, breath picking up as he continues.

“I’m not the same anymore, Martin. You had to beg me to even _think_ about saving children from—from unconscionable torment, and I-I’m _so sorry_ I couldn’t, that I put them there, that I—”

“Shh, shh, it’s alright, darling. Try to breathe. Breathe with me, love.”

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, a few more tears leaking out between gasps, and clutches at Martin’s shirt like a lifeline. 

_Like I might fade away again._

Jon has never looked so young in the nearly five years that Martin has known him—graying hair and all.

“You didn’t put them there, Jon. Eli— Jonah did. This is _not_ your fault, do you understand? And we’ll—we’ll come back for them. We’ll save them. If there’s a way, I _know_ we will find it.”

At his words, Jon nuzzles deeper into Martin’ chest, tears still dripping silently down his face. With his free hand, Martin strokes a thumb over his cheek to wipe them away—

_The cheek that I hit._

_I **hit** him._

“Oh my god,” Martin says, stomach lurching.

Jon opens his eyes, lifting his head slightly to look at him.

“What is it?”

“Jon, I…god. Fuck.”

Martin sits up fully, unable to bear the thought that Jon was forced to be here with him, a person who had _hurt him._

His breath picks up, coming in short gasps. With some difficulty, Jon half-props himself up on one elbow, craning his neck to look at his face.

“What is it, Martin? What’s wrong?”

_So gentle. God._

Martin turns to look at him, eyes brimming with horror.

“I hit you.”

Jon sighs, hanging his head momentarily.

“Martin, no, you—”

“No, Jon. No. There’s no excuse, all this time I could have just _talked_ you out of the statements, but I settled on _hitting_ you first—”

“You didn’t know.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“ _You didn’t know_ , Martin. That’s all. You were trying to _help._ ”

Martin falls silent, chest heaving, distinctly not looking at Jon. The way he swallows now tells Jon of his growing nausea over the whole affair—the guilt, the shame, the regret—too much for anyone to bear; especially here, especially now. When Jon begins running a soothing hand along the length of Martin’s thigh, he comes undone.

_I don’t deserve this._

“I…I am _so sorry_ , Jon.”

Martin does look at him now, pulling every ounce of sincerity within him into this one gaze.

“A-and I know that doesn’t even begin to cover it, but—”

“It’s alright.”

Martin shakes his head fervently.

“No, it’s not alright.”

“Then _I forgive you_ , darling.”

Jon takes his hand, ever so gently, and the tears fall unbidden from Martin’s cheeks.

_I do **not** deserve this._

Martin brings Jon’s hand to his lips to kiss it. To Martin’s astonishment, Jon huffs out a laugh.

“It’s not like they were very hard anyway. More like a…gentle slapping.”

Shocked, Martin’s mouth drops open for a moment as more tears cascade down his cheeks.

“Jon, that is _not_ funny.”

“Oh—oh no, I’m sorry dear, I was just trying to make you laugh,” Jon says, brow furrowing as he attempts to sit up—and nearly goes back down again, the dizziness threatening to pull him under.

“Lie back, Jon, just lie back—”

Martin pushes against his chest with a lighter touch than any Jon has felt, suddenly afraid even to touch him. Leaning over, he fusses at Jon’s makeshift pillow, his blanket, before—

Jon reaches up to cup a hand around the back of his neck, and he freezes in place, hazel eyes meeting bright green.

“I love you, you know,” Jon says, voice nearly a whisper.

_You shouldn’t you shouldn’t you shouldn’t_

Jon’s brow furrows at once, as if Martin’s thoughts were written across his face. The hand at the back of his neck moves forward to cup his cheek, Jon’s other hand reaching up in parallel.

“Hey. _Hey_. Listen. I love you—you gentle, kind, compassionate, gorgeous man.”

The way Jon looks at him now—eyes full of sincerity and honest love—forces Martin to believe him, bringing a blush to his sand-flecked cheeks. There’s nothing for it now—Martin smashes his lips into Jon’s, smiling against him when Jon lets out a noise of pleasant surprise.

_I love him I love him I love him_

Martin deepens the kiss for just a moment before pulling back, resting their foreheads together.

“And I love you—you brave, passionate, protective, beautiful man.”

Jon pulls him back down at once, and they find nothing but rest in each other’s arms.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From crisis to crisis, it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back everybody! guess who came up with a second chapter for this! 
> 
> The AMAZING artwork for this piece was done by @captaincravatthecapricious on tumblr! You can find them  
> [here!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/captaincravatthecapricious)
> 
> CW: nausea, coughing
> 
> (Jon's thoughts are formatted in italics. Jon also speaks Jordanian Arabic here, and there are references to Tim being hard of hearing and previously signing with Jon and Martin.)

Hazy is the air that flows through their tent as Jon awakens, the green light shining from his eyes illuminating the dust still hanging in curtains all around them. His mind feels hazy enough to match—and though the sheer magnitude of horror that’s been swimming ceaselessly through his head has been somewhat lessened, the aftershocks remain.

 _And will for a while,_ he knows, carefully reaching up a hand to rub at his aching temples. It tends to take root, this feeling of weakness. And this most recent bout had been significantly worse than the last. He’s never had to be carried like that before, especially not for so long, clinging to Martin’s shoulders with every bit of strength he had—

_Martin._

With a start, Jon jerks his head to the left to find him—looking more passed-out than sleeping. Sweeping his gaze quickly over him, Jon takes note of his pallor, his cracked and bleeding lips, the skin around his eyes that looks somehow both swollen and sunken—and the remains of tear tracks from before, made obvious by both the absinthian glow from his own eyes and the dust still caked on his face.

_God, he looks awful._

Brows furrowing in concern, Jon sits up carefully, allowing his vision a moment to stop swimming before reaching out two fingers to press against his pulse point—finding it rather rapid, the dryness of his skin rough against Jon’s hands.

_This is_ _…_ _not good._

He glances around the tent for a moment before his eyes settle on the canteen, propped up against their packs that Martin had combined into one. Bracing a bit unsteadily on his arms, Jon lifts himself to his hands and knees, reaching over Martin to grab the bottle before shaking him awake.

“Martin? Martin, you need to wake up,” he says, concern growing as his eyelids begin to flutter open, only for them to shut again as his eyes roll backwards.

“Hey. Martin,” he says a little louder, briefly rubbing his knuckles into Martin’s sternum in order to rouse him.

That does the trick, as he open his eyes with a groan of pain, a hand moving immediately to rub at the spot where his fingers had dug in. Jon can’t help but wince in sympathy.

“J’n?” he slurs hoarsely, eyes fluttering closed again.

“No no, open your eyes, love, look at me—” he demands, cupping his face in his hands and lightly patting his right cheek. “Look at me. Do you know where you are?”

Martin obeys, bleary and bloodshot eyes at last focusing on Jon’s before they glance at their surroundings.

“The—” he starts, before breaking off to cough painfully, throat dry and ragged. “The tent.”

Regardless of his rather alarming state, Jon can’t help but heave a sigh of relief.

“You need to drink some water. Here—” he says, slipping a hand behind Martin’s shoulders and guiding him up to sitting, groaning dizzily all the way.

After sitting quietly for a few moments, breathing labored and rough against Jon’s bracing arm, Martin at last picks up his head from where he’s propped it against his hands, turning wearily to face him. 

“Here,” Jon says lowly, handing Martin the canteen—which he sips at cautiously, careful to savor it and leave plenty behind.

_Of course he'd_ _be trying to save it._

“Martin, just—just drink it, alright? You need it,” he says a bit exasperatedly.

“But _you_ might need it too—if not now, then—”

“It’ll be fine, it’s just about to—”

Booming thunder pulses through the atmosphere, the static of it causing the hair on Jon’s arms to stand on end.

“…rain.”

And indeed it is, as the sky cracks open for the deluge, the rain pounding viciously on the roof of their tent. It immediately soaks through to drip onto Martin’s fringe, drawing a deep groan from him. But Jon sees none of this, feels nothing—as he’s granted a vision of a not-so-distant future, one where the entirety of this desert becomes the ocean floor, so hard and so fast does it rain—

_Oh god._

“We need to move _now,_ ” he urges, collecting any loose items from the floor of the tent and shoving them into the pack, already fit to burst.

“Wh—what’s going on?”

“Come on come on—” he continues desperately, unzipping the tent flap and dragging the pack out by one strap, out into the miserably cold downpour.

He claws desperately at the Beholding to give him some kind of timing, anything to know how fast they need to run. 

“Jon, it— _ah_ _—”_

Martin has exited the tent now, attempting to rise to his feet—but immediately doubles back over, listing to the ground and clutching painfully at his right knee.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Jon says quickly; perhaps wildly as he kneels in front of him.

“It’s—it’s my knee, I must have hurt it…before,” he explains through gritted teeth, careful not to blame the crushing weight of carrying both Jon and their packs through the desert for god knows how many miles.

More than anything, Jon wants to return the favor somehow, to just set him back up in the tent and care for him until he’s well—but they’ve no time, and they need to _move move move._ Even as they talk, Jon still pulls at the Eye, sifting through as much information as he can to find anything that might help them survive.

“We—I’m so sorry, darling, but we need to keep moving,” he says, opening up their bag to search through their supplies. “Here, here—take my brace for now, it might help.”

Jon holds out his knee brace to him—the one that he’d needed occasionally to get around comfortably in a different life, but not since the world ended in Scotland. Martin eyes it, brows furrowing.

“You’re sure? You might—”

“ _Please_ take it, Martin.”

_Please let me help you._

“Here, let’s—slide your shoe off, quickly—“

At last, Martin gives in, slipping off his worn and dirtied shoe so Jon can slide the brace up over his knee—swollen and bruised and _painful._ Jon tries very hard not to think about it as he secures the velcro straps around the joint, tight enough to stabilize it.

“Alright?” he asks, kicking up the volume of his voice to be heard above the rain.

“Yeah, I—“ he takes Jon’s hand to stand, though he puts no real weight into the hold. “Helps, I think. I’m alright.”

“Okay,” Jon says hurriedly, reaching down for the pack. “Okay, then we need to—go—“

His vision sparkles for a few moments as he tries to lift it, a sore reminder of his continuing shakiness, disguised for the past few minutes in a surge of adrenaline.

“I’ve got it,” Martin says in a near whisper, bending down at an odd angle to spare his injured knee, and lifting the pack painfully to his shoulders.

_God, I_ _’_ _m sorry I_ _’_ _m sorry I_ _’_ _m sorry_

“What about the tent, then?” Martin continues, voice a bit stronger as he adjusts to the weight.

“Leave it,” Jon replies, reaching out to take Martin’s hand. “There’s no time, I’m sorry.”

“I--okay, alright.”

Martin hoists the pack up a little further and nods.

“I’m with you.”

—

 _Show_ _me where show me where show me where_ _—_

Jon has no idea how long they’ve been walking now, but it has apparently been long enough for the rain to pool beneath their feet, soaking into his socks and making him shiver. But he barely notices—vision greyed-out in his effort to _See,_ to find higher ground, how far it is—if “distance” even still exists in this world.

Something bubbles up in his throat, and he chokes it back with a rather horrible sound.

“Jon, you need to slow down.”

From behind him, Martin calls out against the driving of the rain, trying to match his pace even with their pack burdening his steps.

“We have to keep going, Martin, we—“

“Look at you, you’re shaking. You’re gonna…you’re gonna pass out again,” he says through panting breaths, pulling lightly against Jon’s shoulder to turn him around.

This was apparently the wrong thing to do, as the motion of it immediately sets Jon’s head to spinning, darkness encroaching upon his vision at the edges as the bubbling in his lungs crawls up and up and up his throat—

And then he’s gagging—doubled over with the force of it, as his lungs try desperately to expel the ink that’s drowning them.

“Oh god—“

Martin catches him with steadying arms at once, keeping him bent over to let his airway clear.

“Christ, what’s going on?”

Jon can feel his fear swelling with every passing moment, so very tempting, so very delicious, _wouldn_ _’_ _t you just love to Know what it is he fears in this moment_ _—_

_Stopstopstopstopstop_

“Jon? What can I do?”

_Have to explain_

“I—“

But he cannot even get out the first word of it, choking once again on the flood spilling from his lips.

“Alright—easy, just take it easy,” Martin mutters, keeping his hold firm while beginning to rub slow circles across Jon’s back.

_Have to explain_

_Please let me explain_

When he finally gets his breath back, Jon knows better than to open his mouth at once—instead, reaching out for a way to speak, one that will not require his words…

A tape recorder lies on the ground beneath him, its thread already spinning in anticipation.

He’s never felt so relieved to see it in his life.

Snatching it off the ground at once, he stands to his full height from Martin’s hold, pressing the deck into his hands with urgency.

“What’s—“

Closing his eyes, Jon pulls at the Beholding, claims its power as his own, as statement after statement pours through his mind in a blur, searching for one that could express the words he can no longer say. He pours it all into the tape—and his voice rings out through the tinny speaker.

 **“** **It** **’** **s going to rain until this place, this desert, forms the floor of a new and dreadful ocean. Until everything on the surface has drowned, until the salt and water mould and change them such that they are entirely dissolved, and remade into terrible shapes of things** **—“**

“Alright—alright, Jon,” Martin interrupts, his face drained of color. “That’s…that’s enough.”

 _I_ _’_ _m sorry,_ he wants to say.

But there are no statements that could ever express the weight of that.

“Right,” Martin resumes after a few shaky breaths. “Right, okay. We need to get to higher ground, then—is that what you’re trying to say?”

_Oh, thank god._

_It worked._

Jon nods quickly, swiping his soaking sleeve over the ink that’s spilled down his face, coughing briefly as he does. It’s difficult, keeping the line to the tape open like this, while searching through the endless reams of information for direction—but he supposes it’s better than choking to death. If such a thing is even within the realm of possibility for him, anymore.

“Do you know the way?” Martin asks, removing his glasses for a moment to wipe at the droplets that have collected upon their surface.

Another moment or two goes by as Jon pulls statements, flipping through them at lightning speed to give Martin a response.

 **“** **The rocks this way are moulded out of the very sand beneath their feet** **—** **whatever gods were or are entrusted with this place, only they can tell how old** **—“**

“Jon.”

He tries to stop, truly he tries, but it’s all a flood now that refuses to be dammed.

 **“—** **they truly are, how long their spine has cracked and twisted and bent into just the proper shape to climb** **—“**

“Jon!”

Martin has both his hands pressed up against Jon’s cheeks, bending down to stem the tide of his words. Immediately, his lungs fill with the effort of resisting the Eye—and he’s choking again at once, clutching at Martin’s arm for support when his head begins to spin again.

_Too much too much too much_

“Christ, are you alright?” Martin asks as the damp echo of it dies at last, brushing Jon’s soaking fringe out of his eyes.

_No._

He nods anyway, straightening his back painfully and pointing out their direction with a shaking hand.

“The rocks are that way?”

Jon nods again, wiping at the ink that’s dribbled over his chin.

“Alright. Just—just save your strength, love. We’ll make it there.”

—

Puddles turn into streams turn into lakes, and they are forced to wade through the wine-dark waters now—Jon submerged up to his navel, Martin up to his mid-thigh, with Jon walking slightly ahead. Martin will never say it, but his knee is getting more painful with every step, his limp becoming more and more pronounced as they trudge through as quickly as they can. For his part, Jon is doing his best to keep them moving in the right direction—though every time he dredges up more information, it sets him coughing up the inky blackness that the Eye has deemed his due punishment.

Behind him, he hears Martin breathing heavily, with both exertion and pain.

_He_ _’_ _s got to make it._

_I can_ _’t carry him._

As soon as the thought of Martin collapsing enters his mind, it sends Jon through a spiral of worry. He’s got to make a plan, just in case, for how he’ll get him out of here—how he could drag him, perhaps they could float, perhaps some other entity would lend him a different kind of strength—

_He_ _has to be alright._

_He has to._

_…_ _I_ _’_ _ve got to check._

Not wanting to worry him, Jon carefully tries to _Know,_ without turning around, just how bad things have gotten. How bad they _will_ get. He’s got to be careful, got to be subtle, got to be—

Before he can stop it, his mind is flooded again with a statement.

Martin’s statement.

And he’s reading it aloud on tape.

 **“** **He trudges through the ever-deepening water, shoes filling up with the sickening black mud that he cannot see, but can only feel; every moment growing more and more uncertain that the rising tide of ink pooling from the wretched Being before him is not what supplies it all** **—“**

Martin stops dead in his tracks, face alight with embarrassment and anger and—

Betrayal.

“Jon? What are you doing?” he asks in an ever-so-carefully measured tone, face growing redder by the second.

_STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP_

Jon _knows_ this isn’t his to hear, _knows_ that this is _wrong wrong wrong_ _—_ and desperately tries to change statements, anything to show Martin that he hadn’t meant to, that he’d overstepped—

 **“** **Kil ma b** **’** **ta** **’** **araf hela inaha asifa--** **“**

_No, that_ _’_ _s not right._

He chokes it off, forcing his mind to translate into words Martin can understand.

 **“** **All she knows is that she is** **_sorry,_ ** **that she is swimming for the surface, but will never, ever be able to breach it** **—“**

“What?”

_He doesn_ _’_ _t understand, doesn_ _’_ _t understand_

Jon flicks through everything he can for some other apology, something that might make things right—until his lungs overflow again, and he’s bent over with another bout of coughing, forcing himself to cut the statement off at once. 

_I_ _’_ _m sorry I_ _’_ _m sorry_

Desperate to tell him, Jon brings his right hand up to his chest to form a fist, moving it clockwise as he remains bent over his knees—nose nearly touching the surface of the water.

“You—oh, you’re _sorry_ ,” Martin understands at last, tracking his movements with furrowed brow as he steps forward to brace a hand against his back.

“Haven’t seen you sign since…well, since Tim,” he continues over Jon’s coughing, patting gently over his lower ribs.

All Jon can do is nod in response, repeating the sign for ‘sorry—‘ unwilling to try his hand at pulling another statement for a good while.

“Look, it’s alright, we’ll…let’s just keep going for now, okay? If you’re alright to keep moving,” Martin says, and though he keeps his tone light, Jon can hear the hurt simmering beneath it all.

_I_ _’_ _m so sorry, love._

He nods all the same, letting Martin take the lead now—smiling a bit when he reaches back for his hand.

—-

“Is it much further?” Martin asks, voice ragged and heaving.

They’ve been walking for god knows how long now, through god knows where—both of them rapidly approaching a breaking point. Jon shakes his head in response, though he does not have it in him to actually draw on the Eye anymore. The way he figures, either they will make it, or they won’t—then they’ll be dead, and it won’t matter anyway.

 ** _Martin_** _will die,_ the Beholding is all-too-quick to remind him.

 _You, on the other hand_ _…_

Jon shivers at the thought, cursing the Eye in silence.

“Is that it?”

At Martin’s question, Jon looks up, likewise squinting through the grey rain curtains, until his eyes land on a rocky outcropping—and with a whisper of hope, he knows at once that the end is in sight.

 **“** **Al sukhoor b** **’** **hai al tariga** **—“**

_Damn it, not again._

**“** **The rocks this way, moulded out of the very sand beneath their feet, whatever gods** **—“**

“Alright, alright. Almost there, then.”

Limping heavily, his shuddering now constant—Martin leads the way, pulling Jon behind him to shield him against the driving rain.

—-

It was further than it looked. _A lot_ further.

Perhaps that’s what the Vast _does,_ though—makes you think you’re nearly there, that you’re just tipping over the edge of hope, before it slides you back like a piece on a chess board. They do not talk now, cannot—Jon no longer needs the Eye to see how utterly spent Martin has become, the only thing driving him forward being the shallowing of the water, which has now turned to mud beneath their feet.

 _—_ _shoes filling up with the sickening black mud that he cannot see, but can only feel; every moment growing more and more uncertain that the rising tide of ink pooling from the wretched Being before him is not what supplies it all_ _—_

_Stop it._

_Just stop._

Shaking his head weakly, Jon shies away from this remembrance of Martin’s statement, of his hidden distrust, of his anger. Ink drips from his face as he coughs it up again, swirling into the black mud below—

Before he realizes what’s happened, he finds his knees slamming into the earth.

“Jon!”

_Can_ _’_ _t breathe can_ _’_ _t breathe can_ _’_ _t breathe_

Gasping desperately as his body screams for more oxygen, he bends double—coughing with force enough to make him sick, watching as it all drips down down down, and he follows it—

“Woah, Jon. Easy, I’ve got you.”

Strong arms stretch out to brace his own, preventing him from planting face-first into the mud—and he sees Martin, kneeling painfully before him, trying to catch his gaze with his own.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, his own voice whittled down to little more than a croak.

 _You_ _’_ _re too good you're_ _too good you_ _’_ _re too good_

Jon wants to tell him so more than anything, wants to tell him to _please, don_ _’_ _t bend your knee like that, you_ _’_ _re going to hurt it_ _—_ but all he can do is give in to the churning of his lungs, closing his lips around it and coughing into his wrist, with no end in sight.

“Jon, we’ve got to keep going,” Martin says, looking around them in worry before turning back to him. “I’ve got you, come on, just lean on me.”

_No no no no no_

He must.

Slipping his hands firmly around Jon’s waist, Martin pulls him upright—but Jon can barely breathe now, could not stop coughing even if he tried--and a familiar numb tingling begins to run up and down his body.

“Don’t pass out, Jon, please stay with me—“

_I_ _’_ _m sorry_

Everything swirls into darkness.

—

The sound of water tumbling to meet stone is what awakens Jon from his unconsciousness, his head pounding miserably, stomach turning as he begins to move about. Though, he supposes that means that he’s still alive, and he can’t feel the rain anymore, and—

_Martin._

Jon slams his eyes open at the thought, panic washing over him, scanning across his blurred sight—before he sees the shape of him, wringing out the damp from the contents of their pack.

_We made it._

Seeing his glasses laid carefully beside his head, Jon pulls them on to get a better look. It seems Martin has found them a small cave within the outcropping, the rain still pounding on the rock above their heads—though a bit slower than before. Even from this considerable distance, Jon can hear Martin’s quiet sniffling, and knows that he’s going to get ill, if he isn’t already.

That all-too-familiar pang of guilt tears its way through his chest at the humanity of it.

Sitting up cautiously, Jon clears his throat—finding it mercifully free of any ink, after this bit of respite. It seems that Martin heard the soft noise, as he turns at once, offering him tight-lipped smile.

_God, he looks awful._

“Hi,” Jon whispers, testing out his voice, finding it battered, but strong.

“Hi,” Martin replies, before turning away briefly to cough. “Are you alright?”

“Are you?”

Martin raises his eyebrows at this, chewing his bottom lip for a moment before looking away.

“Not really, no,” he says at last—and Jon is more grateful for his honesty than hurt over his words.

_Better that than to pretend it_ _’_ _s all fine._

They sit in silence for a few moments, before Martin turns away—sneezing damply into his sleeve, shivering violently as he picks up another piece of clothing to wring out.

_Oh, Martin._

“I’m so sorry,” Jon murmurs, wishing he had the strength to walk over and sit with him. “I’m sorry I left you alone. For—for everything, really.”

Martin seems to visibly deflate at his apology, sighing long and deep as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t...don’t be sorry, Jon, it’s not your fault. I’m just…y’know.”

He waves his hand vaguely in the air.

_Hurt. Ill. Exhausted._

“Right.”

At this, Martin returns briefly back to his work, trying to squeeze a bit more moisture out of Jon’s favorite trousers, before setting it down with a sigh.

“This is hopeless, isn’t it?”

Jon can’t help but quirk up a smile at his petulant tone.

“A bit,” he chuckles fondly. “It’ll stop raining soon, though.”

Finally, Martin turns back to look at him—a real, warm smile on his face that Jon can’t help but mirror.

_There you are._

“Know it all,” he says with a laugh, before scooting himself over to sit next to him against the wall of the cave.

Relief visibly pouring from his bones, Jon immediately tips his head onto Martin’s shoulder with a long sigh of contentment. Humming his pleasure, Martin reaches up a hand to fuss at Jon’s wild and matted hair—which time and again he has insisted is beautiful, even in its terrible state of disrepair.

“Not coughing up ink anymore, I guess?” he asks, turning to press a quick kiss against Jon’s forehead. “Really had me worried there, for a while.”

“I-I know, and I’m sorry. Not anymore,” Jon replies, stretching over to embrace him when Martin shudders once again, rubbing vigorously up and down his arm to create warmth.

“Sorry,” Martin says, sniffling wetly against the soaking sleeve of his jumper.

“I’m afraid you might be getting ill, love,” Jon says with concern, tilting his head to look up at him as he presses a hand against his brow.

“Coming from you,” he chuckles, congestion badly shaping his consonants.

“I’m not ill.”

“Oh right, passing out twice in the last…day or so makes you the very picture of health.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t say that,” Jon concedes, wincing a bit at Martin’s tone.

“Teasing, Jon. Just teasing,” Martin murmurs gently before pressing a kiss into his hair, upon realizing his discomfort.

“Oh. Right.”

“Mmm.”

Martin shifts Jon in his arms a bit, such that he can lay his cheek against the top of Jon’s head—both of them basking in the relative warmth and safety they’ve found in this moment. It’s lovely, it’s gorgeous, it’s…it’s everything to Jon, really.

He smiles against Martin’s chest, burrowing in a bit closer.

“Were you speaking Arabic earlier?” Martin asks rather abruptly, the vibrations from his chest buzzing against Jon’s ear. “On the tape, I mean.”

“Oh, yes—yes, I spoke it growing up,” Jon replies, letting his eyes drop closed. “I suppose it just sort of…came out in the moment.”

Beneath his cheek, Jon feels Martin’s chest pulse in a laugh.

“What?” he replies, looking back up at him, finding a wide smile spreading across his face.

“Nothing, I just sort of—“ he breaks off to sniffle once again— “I thought it sounded…really nice. Especially—err, especially in your voice.”

It’s endlessly endearing to Jon—the way Martin still blushes at things like this, even after all they’ve been through together. At the end of the day, he’s still Martin Blackwood, Esquire—poet, and hopeless romantic at heart.

_Well_ _…_ _not so hopeless after all, as it happens._

“Is that so?” Jon smirks, tone curling up at the edges as he leans up to kiss Martin’s jaw. “Would you like me to speak it more?”

And there it is—the tomato-red blush Jon loves so very dearly.

“Wh—well, I won’t complain, heh—I mean, I’m not going to understand anything you’re saying, but—but not that that matters! Not that—I mean, of course you should speak your first language whenever you please—“

“Martin,” Jon cuts him off with another laughing kiss to the jaw, unable to keep from smiling as he does. “Good lord, _habibi._ _”_

At this, Martin lets out a bit of shaky laughter, going—if possible—redder. He moves his head back to look into Jon’s eyes, his own crinkling up at the edges with a smile.

“Does that mean…does that mean ‘darling?’”

“Close—it’s more like ‘my love,’ or ‘my dear,” I suppose,” Jon says, stroking a hand through his fringe.

“Can I—can I say it too? _Habibi?_ ”

Jon chuckles at this, ever so fond at the way Martin tries to make his throat form the sound.

“A bit harder on the ‘H’ at the front. _Habibi_ ,” he repeats, encouraging Martin to try again.

“ _Kha_ bi—“ Martin breaks off to cough at once, the sound coming out much too harsh, tickling at the back of his throat.

“Not quite _that_ hard,” Jon laughs as Martin’s coughs begin to die down.

“I think I might need to work on that,” Martin giggles, settling back into their huddled position. “Are there any other ones?”

“Oh, plenty. There’s _galbi_ —“ Jon breaks off to press a kiss into Martin’s neck, drawing a gentle little hum from him at once. 

“It means ‘my heart.’ And _hayati_ —“

Another kiss to his jaw, pulling the flush back into his cheeks again.

“It means ‘my life.’”

“Look at you, all romantic,” Martin teases gently, sure to smile down at him, ensuring that Jon will not mistake his meaning. “I love it, _galbi. Hayati._ _”_

 _God, I love you,_ Jon thinks, feeling the warmth of it flood his entire body.

“There’s another I can think of,” he says, smirking as he leans his head back against Martin’s chest. “But you’re not going to like it.”

“What is it?”

“ _A_ _’_ _ayni._ ”

“Ayni. Auy-ni--god, I’m making a mess of it, sorry. What does it mean?”

Jon allows his grin to spread wide across his face, turning at once to see Martin’s reaction.

“‘My eyes.’”

“Fuck _off!!_ ”

They both burst with laughter then, and for a moment—there is nothing else to the world, just them, the warmth, and the sun just starting to peek through the clouds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading!! come find me on tumblr @celosiaa :)
> 
> have a great day! <3
> 
> -love, connor

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone!! thanks so much for reading! I had a great time writing for this prompt, and I hope you enjoyed <3 feel free to drop me a line here or on tumblr (@celosiaa) if there's anything you'd like to see, or if you just want to chat!! 
> 
> The AMAZING art for this fic is by @captaincravatthecapricious!! You can find more of their fantastic work on tumblr here: https://captaincravatthecapricious.tumblr.com/
> 
> (PS the entire song Say When literally fits this fic perfectly,,,, please listen but also know that I didn't intentionally theme it around this song and it's a crazy coincidence lol. But if you wanna keep vibing in the spirit of this fic I recommend!!)


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